Harvest Rebound
by Robin4
Summary: One choice leads Lord Roland down a road of insanity, redemption and risk, while another young man's dreams teeter between reality and possibility...and the former Sir Durendal fights for control of his own soul. Alternate Universe.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own _The King's Blades_, and I never will. The universe, characters, and situations belong to Dave Duncan. I'm just borrowing.

Author's Note: This is quite possibly the first ever Fanfiction from Dave Duncan's fabulous series, The King's Blades (Both known as the Tales of the King's Blades, and the Chronicles of the King's Blades). Begun two Christmases ago, and now available due to many fans asking for this category and Xing graciously granting it, I present to you the beginning of:

* * *

**

* * *

**

HARVEST REBOUND:

_A TALE OF THE KING'S BLADES

* * *

_

_by_ Robin4

* * *

One choice leads Lord Roland down a road of insanity, redemption and risk, while another young man's dreams teeter between reality and possibility. Rebellion and conjury rock the entire Ancient and Loyal Order of the King's Blades, leaving the former Sir Durendal fighting to keep control of his own soul.

**_Sometimes too much control can be bad. Sometimes no control is worse.

* * *

_**

**  
**

**Prologue: Ambrose**

_Ninthmoon, 368_

They were two of a kind, really, even though Granville was a leaner and harder version of the King. Only a blind man could have missed the fact that the indomitable Rector of the Wylderland was King Ambrose's bastard son, and the one spectator for this encounter was anything but blind. There were no Blades present today, for what reason the King had not specified, but perhaps even he was mindful of his unacknowledged son's volatile temper. And maybe he simply wanted to spare Granville public shame.

Maybe. More likely, Ambrose simply didn't want anyone else to know about this meeting. Even Bandit stood outside the door, and the Commander of the Royal Guard was privy to all the major state secrets.

Except for this one.

The storm was coming; inevitably and inescapably. Ambrose had made a promise, and for the good of the kingdom, he was about to break it. While the promise itself had been given in Chivial's interest, nations were fickle things. In politics, promises were made to be broken, or if not, at least subject to renegotiation and reinterpretation. Nothing was black and white, and that was especially true when the succession was involved. And no one knew better than Ambrose IV that royal politics were worse than any other; even parliament could not hope to compare to the maelstrom created by the current royal family. The House of Ranulf had more black sheep than almost any other on the face of Eurania, and only one legitimate heir.

At three years old and a handful of months, Prince Ambrose wasn't exactly an alluring prospect, especially with a country embroiled in a war against rouge conjurers of its own. This was a fact that all the distant relations and black sheep knew very well, yet Ambrose IV hadn't been on the throne for nineteen years without learning a trick or two.

"You wished to see me, Sire?" Surprise flickered in Granville's golden eyes as he spotted the tall figure leaning against the far wall, but his face showed nothing.

The King only grunted. After a moment of studying his liege's face, Granville straightened warily. Few knew how to read Ambrose's moods better than the Rector, and the King's narrowed eyes and stormy expression were proclaiming Very Bad Things.

A long silence passed, and knowing the eventual outcome of this unorthodox gathering did not make waiting feel any better. Kings, however, existed to be waited upon, no matter who was doing the waiting. Fortunately, Ambrose never had been able to remain silent for long, and the fat man lacked nothing when it came to courage.

"I believe that you have not yet been formally introduced to my chancellor, Rector."

Suspicious gold eyes narrowed as Durendal pushed away from the wall, nodding to the other man. They were almost the same height, and he met the burning amber eyes without effort. "Earl Thencaster."

"Earl Roland, I presume." Although Durendal had been chancellor for over eight months and Commander of the Royal Guard for six years before that, he and the Rector of Wylderland had come into contact very few times. It was widely known that the aforementioned Rector had very little use for enchanted swordsmen, and thus paid very little attention to Blades in general. Besides, apart from a short visit to Greymere following the Night of Dogs, the Rector had been busy pacifying the Wylderland—which, Durendal knew, translated into burning and butchering to his heart's content. Two weeks previously, however, Granville had sent the Ciarán to Ambrose in chains, ending years of unrest.

But that wasn't enough, and they all knew it. Granville's eyes were on Ambrose again, and Durendal waited. The King wore an expression of tired curiosity now, as if he wondered if the two of them would strike sparks, but for once, Ambrose did not try to provoke either man. Instead, he stomped over to a chair and dropped his massive bulk into it with a thump. The sturdy chair's legs creaked, but offered no further protest. Like almost every other object or person in Chivial, it had learned that fighting Ambrose was as productive as opposing a tidal wave.

In the uneasy silence, Granville spoke. "We have not yet been introduced," he said with a shrug. His uncanny eyes cut briefly to Durendal, then looked back at the King. "Is there a reason why now is the moment to do so, Sire?"

Questioning a King was always tricky, but Granville had always been an exception to the rules.

"Lord Roland is privy to all of my decisions." Ambrose glared pointedly. "Therefore, if you are to continue being of use to me, I suggest that you get to know him. Well."

"As Your Majesty commands." The bastard had the sense to bow, even if he did so stiffly. He did not, however, glance at the chancellor, following the King's lead. Durendal remained silent, and waited. It did not take long.

"I applaud your efforts in the Wylderland," the King began after a moment, but even the backhanded compliment made Granville's eyes harden. He was accustomed, Durendal knew, to being offered a seat. The past three or four years had brought Ambrose much closer to his bastard son, yet not close enough. Not for this.

The tension in the air was almost thick enough to eat. Most of the barriers that Ambrose had erected between himself and his illegitimate son had melted away before now, but Durendal could sense that the King erecting them once more. He was not enjoying this one bit, not gloating or preening as he was so often apt to do. Ambrose was simply doing what had to be done.

"My successes, Sire."

Amber eyes narrowed in the pudgy face. "_That_, Rector, remains to be seen. In a few months, we may find rebellion starting all over again. It's happened before."

"I find that extremely unlikely, Your Majesty," Granville objected.

"But not impossible." Pointed look. Durendal read the irritation there, but the Rector either did not see it or chose to ignore the warning signs.

"Nothing is impossible, Your Grace, but I would place further rebellion in the Wylderland right alongside Ranulf I coming back to life after four centuries in the grave," he retorted.

"Would you now?" Ambrose demanded.

Granville returned the glare. "I would stake my life on it, Sire."

"I'm sure you would," the King scowled. "But would you stake my kingdom on it, _Rector_?"

"Yes, Sire." There was no hesitation, but the chancellor resisted the urge to wince. Granville should have known better—but then again, perhaps he was counting on Ambrose to appreciate decisiveness over sound judgment.

King Ambrose snorted. "You would." He clambered to his feet, returning the angry glare. "And that is why you will never be King."

"_What?_" Color filled the Rector's cheeks immediately, and the objection was a barely contained shout. Instinctively, Durendal found his body tensing, but he forced himself to relax. He was no longer bound, which made it easier, but a lifetime of protecting his King made hackles rise on the back of his neck.

Ambrose's face had turned bright red as well. "Don't take that tone with me, you insolent upstart!"

"Upstart?" Granville snarled. "If _I _am an upstart, what does that make the man who created me?"

"You have no right to speak to me in this manner, Rector!" Ambrose bellowed. "And if I made you, I can unmake you—I'll shorten you by one overreaching head!"

"Oh, will you?" the bastard challenged.

"Continue acting in this disrespectful manner, and find out," the King growled dangerously. His eyes narrowed, but Granville ignored the warning signs.

"I have no respect for a man who breaks his word," the other retorted coldly.

Ambrose's mouth dropped open, and the fat man stared. Even Durendal felt his eyebrows rising; Granville's fury matched the King's in the same way that his copper hair and beard were identical to Ambrose's own. The two men stood face to face and only a few feet apart; the King's glare sharpened, but even that did not daunt his bastard son. In the silence, Durendal heard shifting outside the door. The Blades outside were becoming understandably anxious, and he imagined that Bandit was only inches away from bursting inside. The Rector, however, was not the inimitable type.

"You promised to legitimatize me when I pacified the Wylderland," Granville stated furiously. "I have crushed the rebellion. I have delivered the Ciarán to you in chains. I have done all you asked, and more—yet you still will not recognize me? You yourself admitted that I am the only one worthy to be your heir!"

"Worthy?" Ambrose snarled. "Worthy? You aren't worthy to rule a pigsty, Butcher of the Wylderland! The Ciarán was a test, you self-absorbed incompetent! If I left my country to you, Chivial would bleed and burn and die! You might be _strong_, Granville, but you have no concept of restraint."

"You're just too vain to be the first King of Chivial to legitimize a bastard," was the bitter reply.

Ambrose laughed at him. "Vain? All Kings are vain, boy! And I am too 'vain' to leave my country in the hands of a bloodthirsty maniac!"

Granville snorted. "Who will you name heir, then?" he demanded. "A sickly toddler? An unmanageable wench? Or will you bequeath the country to your fop of a nephew, Courtney? Bloodthirsty they are not, but Parliament would walk all over any of them."

"Oh, so now you fancy yourself a political expert, do you?" the King asked scornfully.

"Acorns don't fall far from the tree, _Father_."

"You presume too much, sirrah!" Ambrose thundered. "Two words from me and you won't survive the night!"

"You won't kill me. You need me," the Rector replied with contempt. His face was tight. "You'll use me like the others, and then discard me." Granville's sharp eyes narrowed. "But not until then. And I will outlive you."

Instinct prickled; Durendal felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. Unseen, he shifted slightly to his right, every muscle in his body tense. Granville had completely forgotten his presence, but Ambrose had not. Alarms were blaring in his head; Durendal did not need to be bound to sense danger.

"Will you?" Ambrose's eyes flashed. "Not unless you find your way back into my good graces, you won't! Otherwise, the only way you'll be leaving this room is under escort to the Bastion!"

"My army won't stand for that."

"You're army is comprised of mercenaries," the King retorted. "I'll buy them off."

It was Granville's turn to laugh openly. "You know as much about armies as you do about conjuries," he said. "And both frighten you to _death_."

Durendal did not miss the emphasis; nor did he miss the sudden hardness in Granville's eyes. Almost immediately, his trained eyes also noticed subtle movement of the Rector's right hand, how it crept casually towards his left wrist. While no Commander in their right mind would let an unbound man into the King's presence with a sword, the chancellor was not surprised to note the dagger concealed in Granville's left sleeve. The Rector was probably only testing the waters, seeing what would happen, but still—he would take no chances. _Harvest _slipped an inch out of her scabbard, making Granville's head snap around at the soft noise. Durendal was just out of striking distance, but that could change in a heartbeat.

"I will kill you before you can draw," he said quietly.

"You think to threaten me?" Granville demanded, his amber eyes flashing. To the left, Durendal watched the King's eyebrows rise. But Ambrose did not intervene.

"Should I need to?"

Granville was silent for a moment, studying the chancellor as if gauging the truth behind his words. Durendal could see him calculating angles, measuring how long it would take a Blade-turned-politician to cross the few feet between them. However, feeling contempt for Blades was far from the same thing as underestimating them, and Granville's hands slowly moved apart as his face assumed a neutral expression.

"Of course not," the Rector replied, visibly reining his anger back. "I would never think to threaten the King. I am, always, his Majesty's most humble and _loyal _servant." His nostrils flared. "In all matters."

Crafty Ambrose was having none of that. His eyes were still hard. "In this matter?" he asked pointedly.

Pain flickered across Granville's face. He let out a deep breath. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Good." The hard expression eased slightly. "Do not think, Rector, that we do not value your services highly."

"I would never presume to think so, Sire," was the wooden reply. The anger had disappeared off of Granville's face, only to be replaced by no expression at all—but there was something wounded and cornered in his eyes that Durendal had not expected. Nor, he realized, had Ambrose. But before the King could speak, Granville bowed. "May I have your leave to depart, Your Majesty?" he asked levelly. "I will return to my army and await your orders."

"Go, then." Ambrose's response was uncharacteristically quiet, and as the door closed behind the Rector, he moved back to the same chair, staring at it for a long moment before lowering his bulk into the seat. He sat in brooding silence for several long moments, and Durendal waited quietly, watching an assortment of expressions flash across his King's face. Unsurprisingly, worry and regret were two of those emotions, despite the fury Ambrose had just displayed. This had been harder on him than the King was ever likely to admit.

Finally, he sighed, glancing at his chancellor. "He is a brilliant soldier but too ruthless to be a ruler." Ambrose's eyes narrowed. "There are many faults I will tolerate, but if Granville ever becomes King, it won't be long before he starts treating Chivians just as bloodily as he treats the Wylds."

One arched copper eyebrow indicated that Ambrose was waiting for an answer, and Durendal nodded quietly in response. "I would not serve such a King, sire."

"Nor would I ask you to."


	2. Part One: Roland

Author's Note: The Disclaimer is on the prologue, and here's the torture warning. It's here, and in other chapters, but not horribly graphic.

* * *

**

* * *

**

**HARVEST REBOUND:**

_A TALE OF THE KING'S BLADES _

_

* * *

_

**_

* * *

_**

**Part One: Roland**

The world was spinning, and breathing was well nigh impossible.

He tasted blood, sharp and metallicy in his throat. It was a familiar taste, now, almost comforting in its normality. He was losing track of time, but there were a few constants in his waning life. The pain was one of them.

The inevitability of the torture was another.

Blood splattered into his mouth, fresh and wet and sticky. New blood. He forced his dizzy eyes open, realizing belatedly that a whip had struck him in the face while he'd been too dizzy to realize. This pain was sharp, poignant, nothing like the slightly dull and familiar agony his of day to day existence. It made a grunt of pain rise in his throat, but even in his half-conscious state, he fought that back, forcing his eyes open.

Something dark wandered its way into his eyes when he blinked, and it took him a long moment to realize that it was blood. An even longer moment passed before he could see through the grit that his fuzzy mind realized, again, was blood. Too much blood. He should have been dizzier than he was; small wonder that he had not passed out completely from the pain. Or from blood loss.

The whip struck again, distracting him before he could stop to figure out how or why he was still conscious. Then agony bled into gray dizziness, just as it always did. Everything began to fade together until it was all just one big blur of pain, one constant enemy to be fought and endured. Day in, day out. It was simple, really, if one knew how to concentrate.

If you had something to hold on to.

And he did.

Loyalty, some said, was better to receive than to give. But for some, the act of _giving_ loyalty, of being faithful, was purpose enough. Perhaps it was a special breed of insanity, to hold oaths so close to the heart so that they meant more than life, but it gave him something to hold on to. Those oaths provided purpose, direction, motivation. And they were enough. They had to be. Despite the pain, the promises of relief if only he would betray—loyalty was enough. Even when the strikes of the whip fell into a rhythm, when the days went by without chance of rescue, loyalty was enough.

_All Blades are born to die._


	3. 1

**HARVEST REBOUND:**

A TALE OF THE KING'S BLADES

* * *

**1

* * *

**

Sir Stalwart—still unbound—was brewing in the Snakepit when Sir Snake himself burst through the door.  
Of course, when Snake moved anywhere, he never really _burst_; he slithered, having chosen the perfect name for himself so many years before at Ironhall. Like all Blades, he was whipcord thin and athletically built, even past his days in the Royal Guard. These days, Sir Snake was the chief of the Old Blades, officially the Commissioner of His Royal Majesty King Ambrose's Court of Conjury, but in his youth he'd once been the Deputy Commander of the Guard, bound to the King in the very same way poor Stalwart wished to be.

Several weeks ago, the King _was _going to bind him, but through no fault of Stalwart's own, that had all fallen apart. A rebellion had sparked in the east, which was nothing new—King Ambrose had dealt with more than one rebellion during his reign, and one additional one didn't seem to be much more significant. But the new rebellion had quickly become different when the King's illegitimate son, Lord Granville, became involved. Add renegade conjurers to that, and Stalwart's promised binding had become less important, and the Old Blades more so.

And now he was stuck again, until Snake strode in with considerably less stealth and grace than he usually possessed. He slammed the door to Stalwart's tiny room open with force, and never even turned to look at the smaller man. In fact, Snake's usually calm face was twisted in fury.

"Get up, Wart!" he snarled. The older man's anger, more than his words, brought Stalwart leaping to his feet, but the ill begotten nickname almost worked as fast. Snake only called him Wart when he was unhappy—every other time, he was Stalwart or simply "brother." He'd begun as Wart, but after earning the Old Blades' respect, he hadn't been called that. _This has to be bad_. "We have places to be!"

A scuffle downstairs told Stalwart that the entire house was in motion. The Snakepit was the unofficial headquarters of the Old Blades, and there were always at least a dozen of them present at any given time. What in the world could need a _dozen _knights in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King's Blades?

"What's going on?" But Stalwart didn't get an answer before Snake swept out the door again, and the smaller man had to rush to keep up with him. Snake was taking the steps two at a time on the way down, never a good sign. Stalwart leapt down the last four to land beside him. "Brother?"

A storm was brewing on the mustached face, but Snake no longer looked like the dandied fop he often portrayed. Sir Felix stepped forward to jostle his elbow.

"Snake?"

"Brother?" Sir Terror also approached. Both knights were each more than a decade older than Stalwart, and had known Snake back when they were all in the Guard together. But his stormy expression hardly wavered. "What's going on?"

"Is it a raid?" Stalwart asked, his mind racing. Things had been so quiet lately; in the three weeks since Granville had allied with the rogue conjury orders, it had seemed like everyone else was waiting to see which way the ball dropped. There hadn't even been any ongoing investigations…

"And why do you need all fifteen of us?" Felix asked again. "I've never heard of conjurers so—"

"We're forming a search party." Snake's voice was wooden. "Some peddlers found two dead Blades outside the city…"

"What?" fourteen voices cried. Stalwart's heart thudded in his chest. Dead Blades meant—

"…And three swords," Snake finished.

"_Three?_"

The leader of the Old Blades nodded, and he suddenly looked very old. His voice was heavy. "_Justice_."

Stalwart went cold. That had been Orvil's sword's name, and Orvil had once been only four ahead of him at Ironhall. They hadn't ever been able to get to know one another afterwards, but he still could remember his friend—

"_Dancer_."

Disturbed whispers circulated amongst the old Blades. Two Royal Guardsmen, the King's Blades, both dead on the south road out of Grandon…it boded poorly for someone, and those who paid for the death of two Blades would pay dearly. Stalwart gulped. _Dancer _had been Raven's. Raven had been Prime when Stalwart was the brat—

"And _Harvest_."

Harvest.

"_Harvest!_" Fourteen voices shouted the word, but it might as well have been a tidal wave. Snake looked sick, and Stalwart immediately felt the same. _Harvest _was the one sword that every Blade knew, that every Blade admired.

"We ride."

* * *

The flies and the smell were the first thing that Stalwart noticed. He'd been around dead bodies before, had even killed men, but he'd never intentionally visited corpses. Snake hadn't mentioned the three dead horses earlier, or the fact that arrows were crossed in both dead Blades' chests. Multiple arrows—before turning away from Orvil, Stalwart counted four.

Raven's body lay half underneath his fallen horse. The poor beast had caught two arrows in his own chest, and the lifeless Blade had been struck by five more before he had even hit the ground. Both lay in a puddle of blood that had mostly sank into the dirt beneath them, but not quite; Stalwart's boots made a suspicious _squishing _sound as he landed on the ground. His horse shied away, but the young Blade wasn't paying attention. His eyes were on his dead friend. Orvil, not far away, had managed to dismount before dying, but his horse was dead, too, seemingly the victim of a rushed sword stroke that had left blood everywhere. That puddle certainly hadn't even begun to evaporate, either, and Stalwart sidestepped it silently. The third horse lay diagonally across the road, having only been struck by one arrow—but that was a precision shot, and had gone directly into the equine's heart. _Odd._

There were three dead bodies within five feet of the horse; one was headless, now, and Stalwart caught a glimpse of Sir Felix rummaging through the nearby bush to find the missing appendage. The other two were equally dead, though they'd been struck down without as much fanfare; the one closest to Stalwart had died from a cut throat, and the further had been slain by a very precise thrust through his heart. Not a dozen feet away lay two more dead bodies, one of which had been felled by another very accurate thrust.

The other, however, was still standing.

He was dead, of course—in fact, he couldn't be deader, what with an antique swordbreaker sticking out of his throat. The famous gold swordbreaker was the reason why the fifth dead man was still on his feet; only the jeweled hilt was visible from where the swordbreaker dug through the corpse's neck and into the giant oak tree behind him. It took a very strong arm to throw a heavy swordbreaker that distance and propel it straight into a tree, but none of the Old Blades doubted who that strong arm belonged to. King Ambrose had, after all, only ever presented one of its kind.

Its owner had been one of their own, and he'd accounted for himself well. There was a sixth body to Stalwart's left, and if he had been impressed by the strength evident in the swordbreaker's use, the young Blade was now amazed. Like his decapitated colleague, this corpse had been the victim of a very strong two handed blow—the cut started in his right shoulder and went down to his waist _diagonally_. He hadn't been cut in half—quite—but it was the closest Stalwart had ever seen a human being come to doing so to an opponent.

And _Harvest_ wasn't even a broadsword.

The seventh body was approximately two strides away—two steps towards the attackers, Stalwart realized as he mimicked the bloody footprints he'd found starting by the sixth corpse. He'd died with a thrust through the heart, which created a surprisingly little amount of blood…nothing even approaching the amount that was on the ground at his feet. There was another arrow in the dirt to Stalwart's right, and the footsteps stopped.

The eight body had probably missed being nailed to a tree only because there wasn't a tree nearby. Judging from the size of the hole in the corpse's chest, _Harvest _had landed there with a considerable amount of force behind her. The peddlers had probably had a hell of a time pulling the sword free, but Stalwart felt very little pity for them at the moment.

It was obvious that he was standing where Sir Durendal had fallen.

There was a long moment of silence in which none of the Old Blades spoke. Unlike Stalwart, many of them had served with the great Durendal—but like him, they idolized the famous blade. _"The King is 'sire' to his face and 'Fat Man' when he's not around. Bandit is 'Leader'," _Snake had told him on that very first day._ "And Durendal. Him we honor because he's still the greatest of us all. No one else."_

There were no more footsteps, but there were ruts in the ground. They were not deep ruts like those caused by a pair of spurs being dragged over hard-packed dirt—but Durendal, a superlative horseman like all Blades, never wore spurs. Stalwart swallowed. Those had definitely been Durendal's heels dragged over the squishy and bloody ground, and the trail of blood that went with the ruts undoubtedly had come from the great Blade as well. How had they taken him down? It hardly mattered, but Stalwart still wanted to know.

"Why did he throw _Harvest_?" he asked instead, glancing at Snake, who had somehow wound up standing beside him.

"Because he knew it was lost," the other answered after a long moment, then gestured at the ground. _Harvest _was still in Snake's hands. He seemed afraid to let her go. "Look at the blood, brother."

And there was a lot of blood. A bound Blade could take an incalculable amount of abuse before falling, but Durendal hadn't been a bound Blade for almost a year. He'd been the Lord Chancellor of Chivial, instead, the top Minister in the land. He was phenomenally popular and extraordinarily successful, which went a long distance towards proving that Blades were more than just swordsmen…even though the carnage surrounding Stalwart also reminded them all that while old Blades might rust, they never rotted. Sir Durendal was more than just any old knight, too; he was the Blade of Blades, in addition to being King Ambrose's right hand. A few hardy souls usually went far enough to point out that Lord Chancellor Roland was often His Majesty's left hand, as well.

Either way, this was not going to be good.

* * *

Royal temper tantrums rarely were, either. With the Baelmark treaty signed and Princess Malinda's matrimonial fate decided, the number of royal outbursts per day had supposedly decreased—or so the Guard insisted, though Stalwart himself wouldn't know. But King Ambrose himself had an exceedingly _royal _temper when angered, and if the death of two of his Blades and the disappearance of his Chancellor couldn't set him off, nothing could.

As it was, he took the deaths of Orvil and Raven remarkably well. The King sent Deputy Commander Dreadnaught back to Ironhall with their swords and a note for Grand Master; such was tradition. It was Durendal's disappearance that sent him rolling. Stalwart could hear him through the door.

"_I want him _found, _Commander!" _the royal person bellowed. "And the same goes for you, Snake! I want the traitors found and burned and _dead_!"

"Your Majesty, it may be easier said than done—"

No one had ever accused Bandit of not having backbone, but Ambrose droned him out easily. "I don't want difficulties, Commander, _I want results_!" he thundered. "And we want our chancellor back!"

Coming from any other man, those last words would have distinctively resembled a two-year-old's whining. Coming from the King, however, they were a command. Especially from _this _King.

Stalwart frowned, leaning against the wall. He was wearing Guard livery now, even though he wasn't really bound—and if things kept going this way, he was never going to _get _bound. But in light of the current situation, Stalwart's problems were really very minor. The first minister of Chivial was missing, and though he'd done a bloody good accounting before they'd gotten him, that fact was still going to turn the Blades inside out. This wasn't any Chancellor. This was _Durendal_.

This was not going to be fun.


End file.
